The Deep End

The curse thumps from within my chest
wretched poison spread
its perimeter to meet her.
 
My emerald-eyed ravens circle this martyr
lusting for the supple youth
her heart still bleeds.
 
She leaves her coast to wade
past posts that probe
the integrity of her passion for me.
 
With stifled breaths, I stand in angst
she doesn’t know it yet
no one’s survived where she wades.

Written by
-Antidote-

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Monster

She was innocent and pure

It was her first love

Thought he’ll be the one.

 

BUT

 

He is a psychopath

Won’t let her go out

 

Told her sweet lies

But cursed her in heart

He wants nothing but lust

So they did not last

 

Fondness turned into violent

Love became hate

He is a monster in disguise

 

Poor little girl

Her first love was a disaster

But she is much stronger now

More careful in love

Won’t fall for second.
By,

Nur Fatihah Mohd Arnawi, Melaka

Damned

Rotting crimson cave

once home to your passion

now lies in another’s caress

who possess your devotion

from dawn to dusk

and still lingers on

in your dreams –

my damnation.

 

But I can’t declare

what drives me

to the devil’s lair, nightly

I lost that freedom

to sing your name

when you slid through

the crack in our the cave.

 

By 

Anntidote, Puchong, Selangor.

Freedom

Freedom was a virtue unknown,
Until your vice crossed my path.
That carefree feeling taken for granted,
Vanished when you revealed your wrath.

The bracelet you picked out,
One I’ve proudly shown,
“Only the finest silver”,
The prettiest handcuff I’ve known.

The gemstone on my throat,
A finely fitted necklace,
Almost as perfectly as your fingers,
When they’re often interlaced.

Twenty-four carats and rose gold,
Drawing (and breaking) hearts as it glistens,
If freedom is a virtue now known,
I must be in the world’s richest prison.
By,

Esther Kuok May Yan, Kuala Lumpur

Insecurities

Insecurities kill,

It’s like falling into an empty void,

You just keep drowning,

And drowning,

And drowning.

For all I know,

You’d fall for her again.

And I’d bow,

For I knew when it all began.

All those times together,

Turned my stomach into flutters,

I’d cherish them forever,

But all what you feel is that matters.

I don’t know how I’d collect,

All the pieces that I’ve left to tear apart,

How I’ve left,

All the advice thrown like a dart,

Go to utter waste.

Well,

I rather not dwell.

Wake up to a better
tomorrow,

A day with less sorrow.

By,

Vydehgi Pillay, KL.

One for the shy underdog

I should like to speak

My feet can’t bring me there

I should like to approach

Alas I find I did dare.

I should like to speak

My stubborn tongue is tied

I should like to greet

Alas, silence, I’m terrified.

I should like to speak

Yet I find myself dancing

I should like to sway ever more

Alas, away I’m going.

I should have spoken

All there was, a monologue

I could have been brave

This is one for the shy underdog

By,

N. Azlan, KL.


This image was taken by the author herself.

Flammable

I have a lot of fears, some of which I am still struggling to diminish.

Over time, they only seem to proliferate—

they spread like wildfire, setting ablaze all of me within reach.

And to this day,

despite the many years, the countless nights spent with a fist pressed to my mouth,

the many mornings I awake from under the covers murdering hours

as I attempted to rouse whatever strength I had left to fling my legs from the covers,

and heave myself up and out…

I still spend my midnights stitching my charred pieces together.

I have yet to find the right means to serve as an extinguisher,

ones strong enough, right enough to permanently have the flames doused,

to have them irrevocably perished.

Resultantly,

present time,

they are still so voluptuously licking off my layers and layers of plasters and bandages, stitches and fixes.

Even so, however, to my astonishment,

I continue to grow.

I continue to replaster and rebandage, restitch and refix.

I grow out of my tattered clothes, so I purchase new ones.

This time, ones that’ll be able to conceal more.

 

And as I grow,

in this queer state of constant disparages,

endless reconstructions,

in these macabre repetitive episodes of breaking and remodeling,

and as I wade through my days as if crawling out of a grotesque,

Burtonesque swamp lurking with creatures unimaginable…

 

My curiosity is piqued because call me a masochist,

but I look forward to finally be able to truly look into the eyes of the girl in the mirror.

 

Without disintegrating.

 

By,

Amira Jeffrey, Penang.